


Train at the Station

by druscilla



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anger, Bipolar Disorder, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5178110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/druscilla/pseuds/druscilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete has writer's block and he takes it out on Patrick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Train at the Station

A noise came out of Pete’s throat, an angry broken scream, and he threw his pen and notebook across the wall. Patrick didn’t have time to react before the older boy was yanking the blankets over his head and curling into a ball, swearing and kicking his feet at the air.

“Fuck everything!” he yelled, way too loudly for the hotel walls. “Fuck everyone!”

“Pete,” Patrick tried gently, but the older boy just sat up and pulled the blanket off, his dark eyes narrowed at the singer.

“Fuck you, too.”

Patrick sighed, deep and heavy, lowering his own eyes for a minute before bringing them back up, but Pete was already curling back into a ball again. He did a bad job pulling the blanket over himself, with most of his back showing.

“I just wanted to write,” Pete whispered, sounding defeated. “Like we actually have three fucking hours off but my brain is all ‘fuck you Pete’.” He sounded angry then and Patrick quietly slid from the bed he was in to climb over Pete and into the empty side of his bed.

Pete’s face was still hidden in the blanket, but he pressed himself into Patrick’s arms anyway, covers and all. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I was mean.”

Patrick’s arms came up to touch his back and wiggle under the gaps in the covers to find the dark black hair and tangle in it. “I forgive you,” he said because he knew it was important to Pete. In actuality, a simple ‘fuck you’ hardly registered on his radar as mean anymore. It was more of a red flag. “Why can’t you write?”

No one else could have asked that question without Pete flying off the handle again, but for Patrick he pulled the blanket off his face and pushed the hair out of his eyes. He could tell from the feel of it on his fingers that he needed to shower. He suddenly felt the need to pull himself away from nice, clean Patrick but the younger was having none of it. His arms tightened and he kissed Pete on the forehead. “Tell me.”

“It’s blank.”

Nothing else. Just those two words and Pete’s eyes lowered under thick lashes. Then two fat tears and Pete started pulling on his hair so Patrick grabbed his hands and held them gently in his own. “What’s blank?”

“Me.” Pete tried to tug his hands away but Patrick wouldn’t let him.

“Maybe you just need some–”

“They were all there yesterday!” Pete shrieked at him, startling Patrick enough to yank his hands away. Instead of pulling on his hair again though, he wrapped them around his waist like he was hugging himself, bent slightly at the middle. It wasn’t a hug. He was holding himself together, Patrick knew. “Can’t fucking stop a train for any god damn wreck but then it’s a fucking ghost town? No. They took them.”

Patrick froze. It had been a long time since Pete had used that term. “They?”

The older boy pushed him. Hard. “I didn’t fucking say that!” he screamed, pushing himself out of the bed, fear evident in his voice but trapped beneath fury. “You said that. Fuck you.” He slammed the bathroom door behind him hard and locked it. The sound of the shower wasn’t enough to drown out Patrick pounding on the door and pleading, his voice growing weaker as the tears became more pronounced.  
When Pete finally opened the door, Patrick was sitting against it on the floor and he looked up at the older boy with wet cheeks. “I love you,” he whispered, a stab to Pete’s heart with a dull blade.

Be angry. Be sad. He could see the two paths before him, one with sharp branches that would hurt a lot for a minute as he plowed through them, and another with glass on the road that would cut his feet, but the ending was so much closer. “What do you want,” he began viciously before his voice cracked and he was sliding to the floor, pulling Patrick’s head to his by the back of his neck, “a fucking medal?”

The younger kissed him through the tears and they clung to each other tightly. “Just you,” Patrick choked into Pete’s shoulder. “I just want you.”

“No one fucking wants that.” Pete broke the sob with a bitter laugh.

Patrick turned his head to kiss the older boy on his damp cheek. “I do.”

His beautiful broken poet god who couldn’t see how much his was worth underneath the scuff marks and the deep scratches and the shouting matches. But Patrick could always see it, glowing underneath his skin or barely flickering in tear stained pupils. His job was to make sure it never went out.

“You should sleep,” he murmured. “You wore yourself out.”

Pete let Patrick help him stand up and tuck him in. “Sit with me?”

The younger boy nodded and settled against the head of bed, stroking the still slightly damp hair as Pete fell asleep in his lap. Maybe there would be a train at the station when he woke up.


End file.
